Thursday, December 8, 2016

Margaret Roncone ---- four poems

 Language is a Flame


I burn rosebuds,
bergamot
to find
the birthplace
of my grandmother
who understood sorrow,
nylons wrapped
around ankles
potatoes boiling
on an ancient stove
a man who misunderstood
even the food
she placed before him
nothing warm enough
soft enough
only the wreck of a car
sitting useless
under the old cherry tree.




In This House

I move from room to room
balls of my feet
flapping against wood
refrigerator hums
its numb song
dusk air passes
its invisible hand
as the porch’s slatted ironwood
holds  plant debris
deer come and go
leaving nothing
but a spot of cropped grass
green laces of cedar
open and close mouths
of branch
I am in awe of everything
whether it has lungs
or a soul of wood.





What I Hear

Smoking or fainting
are not allowed
on the vessel
my mind often
plays tricks
to protect me
from damaged people
from the upside down moon
with no tether
from silver spoons
pretending to create
concertos
I simply ask
please warn against potholes
please retract sharp
instruments
please display
silence sign
so all can see.




The Father as Artist


tell me again how your father instructed you into the language of food
how you      his first daughter    learned to balance an egg
on morning's shifting edge

learned  mustard was a color 
to shade sky   and trunk of trees
cream     a luxury  found
in stealing glances    a neighbor woman pruning roses
an ankle teased beneath her dress

tell me again how your father spoke without anger
stood at the window     watched
as the winter moon rose like the silver dollar stolen
from your grandfather's nightstand

he placed it in your hand
told you to trust your instincts with strange men
never leave questions unanswered like an open door.



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